


but sin is of our own design.

by ICARU5



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Cults, Earth, Hell, Immortals, Jun's there but he's unconscious the entire first chapter so stick with me, M/M, Minghao is an entity of Hell oops, Red String of Fate, i'm going to regret this later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22614070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICARU5/pseuds/ICARU5
Summary: You do not know what immortal is.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	but sin is of our own design.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadlylampshades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlylampshades/gifts), [figure8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/gifts).



> So you're here? Welcome to this mess.
> 
> To clarify, I might write the rest of the story, might not. I have a plot for it but tbh the only way I'll finish it is if I get someone to write it with me. So if anyone's interested, comment below! I did this to get attention from my two favorite authors, sue me.

The whisper of his footsteps was lost in the screams of sinners.

In his eyes glittered a hell of mercy compared to the one that licked at his skin. The air around him had grown laden with burning flesh and smoke—the agony of writhing bodies like a layer of ash embedded beneath his fingernails.

Shadows amassed into a stygian crown upon his head, trickling down his neck and into the ridges of his shoulderblades. There, they flared into great wings of night, broken only by the guttering stars studded in its depths. Like disciples, they followed in his wake, not caring if it were a fallen king, a demon, or or a god that led them. It was the absolute of his immortal blood in which they were consoled, flickering excitedly when gold flashed in his eyes every once in a while.

Steam bloomed from his lips as he exhaled amidst the flames. He paused, let it dance over his palms, watched it blacken as if it had a body to burn. The dark curve of his mouth had remained unbothered, until it twitched in warning, drawing back into a silent scream. His knees buckled, collapsing violently to the ground, the hellfire cowering from where his fingers landed and started to spasm. He groaned through clenched teeth as pain thrummed through the length of his body, shuddering even after the worst of it had passed.

In adrenaline and shock, he ran a hand down his back. When he met empty space, he quickly recoiled, shaking harder than before as he watched clumps of shadows leaking through the space between soot-stained fingers. He hissed in anger and disbelief, the weakened wisps dispersing in silver light. He registered his surroundings then—first the sounds of animals and leaves rustling in wind, the smell of pine and fir and heady musk, then the ichor leaking from his mouth, nose, and ears, splattering on dirt which then gave way to moss, ferns, and flowers. He looked up, and gasped softly at the sight of the moon—so bright against the ink of night that the stars around it had turned invisible.

Bits of soil and pebbles dislodged to the ground as he rose to his feet. His brows furrowed as he tugged at the red strings tangled loosely around his neck and limbs in vain. When the breeze stirred he shivered, unease tensing the lines of his face before relaxing.

He focused on a stray thread, looped around his ankle. The ground around it started to blur, the crimson stark against the grass. Every movement was dulled by white haze, actions slipping through the widening cracks of memory. It's only when the trail lifted off the ground that the fog receded - feet, white strips, moving bodies growing sharper until he recognized he was far from where he started. Pale men were joined together by dirt-stained linen, circling around a weeping willow tree. A man staggered into view - such grace and chaos was the manner of his movement - he orbited the bound circle like a crazed animal, words slipping and wresting past his lips. He startled when he heard a broken piece of a chant, his mind going blank before erupting into a cacophony of  _ whowhowhowhoisthisman? _ and the image of severed tongues and scattered bones rotting beneath a millennia of ash and above it his footsteps heavy with guilt. 

He recovered, shaking his head in order to clear it, shock intermingled with the sound of  _ his _ language,  _ his _ people's words rolling over the tongue of the blindfolded man. He leaned forward ever so slightly, desperate to hear more, when he was distracted by a scarlet pulse of the forgotten string, cutting through the circle until it reached a bloodied boy, obscured by the mass of men, tangled pitifully in red strings.

Between the gaps of the men he could see the threads wrapping around him and the willow tree. His head was rolled to the front of chest, blood, red blood, dripping from his ears and face. There was a gleam of silver from behind the tree, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He waited for a full rotation of the men, until he saw the unmistakable shape of a knife cut into the boy's upper arm, the beginnings of the most intricate scar of tally marks.

The chanting abruptly stopped, and he wrenched his gaze from the boy to his vultures. They were panting, chests heaving, falling to the ground only to sink lower to press their foreheads to the dirt, their hands outstretched, trembling, as if in supplication.

He received a bow of the chin from the linen-eyed man, noting the smile when the man straightened. Silver flashed from the tree again.

" _ Black God _ ," he murmured, the sound of his language still foreign to him. He could see the small wrinkles of his face, the gray streaks of his hair.

His hand shot out to crush what he recognized as the throat of a man, not even looking backwards to know it was the knife-wielder dangling in his hold. He did not feel the pain of his wrist being hacked apart by the blade, feeling the impact of metal on bone. When he tightened his grip, the man's actions ceased, gold scattering over firs where the knife dropped. The ichor covered the coating of the boy's blood, not intermixing. He stared at the blindfolded man.

The uncanny smile was still there, barely distorted by the man's sudden war cry, widening as the circle shouted an approving answer.

The string shone red once more, and the linen strung from the boy's neck turned into a red thread. The man's grin widened, inspecting where his own binding which had turned into thin scarlet.

His head emptied into silence before it was torn apart by his rage. His sharp nails tore into the linen and the eyes , ripping out his throat before he could chant another line. His powers were lost with the wisps were shriveled up in the moonlight, but his immortal strength still was enough to slaughter the remaining men, cowering, crying for mercy to this beast of Hell. Pieces of guts and flesh splattered amongst green, the painter silent as he wielded the brush of death, his forearms caked in scarlet.

He turned away, leaving the grass to drink its fill of brutality. Upon hearing the slight groan that came from the boy's mouth, he stalked over with a silent snarl. Anger simmered beneath his skin, boiling as the boy just  _ hung _ there,  _ weak _ . He grabbed the string between them and sliced through it furiously, but against even the best of his efforts the string would only hum and bend under the onslaught. Teeth bared, he whirled around to slow down his rapid breathing.

Silver glinted by his feet.

It was peaceful, the way the string fluttered to the earth —its color turning dull, as if all of its vibrancy had transferred to the knife. He breathed in deeply, hope unfurling slowly as he looked towards the forest. But the stirring of the shadows was barely noticeable, as if they did not recognize him, their faithful friend.

His grip tightened around the knife, and the boy woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> Xu Minghao: Black God (not pertaining to Chinese folklore but thanks), can control/speak with the shadows, he doesn't rule Hell but he's the only one who isn't burning up in flames.
> 
> Wen Junhui: innocent human that was captured by a cult, he's the one that's tied to the tree in the first chapter
> 
> To explain what Hell is—it isn't Biblical Hell but it does have the sinners concept. Basically, there was an Earth before our universe and it's still there. The people who were left were so corrupt that they basically are sinners, but it's not like they were transported there after they died. They would burn in flames for the rest of eternity on the old Earth. Minghao's immortal, so he's alive. But he has a saucy background so please, just comment if you want this to be continued, and or co-write this.


End file.
